


Dust

by orphan_account



Category: Pedro Pascal - Fandom, Prospect (2018)
Genre: F/M, Sex Pollen, Smut, pollen fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-21
Updated: 2020-08-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:01:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26026882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Relationships: Ezra (Prospect 2018)/Reader, Ezra (Prospect 2018)/You
Comments: 1
Kudos: 110





	Dust

Squatting in front of the shrub, you rub a thumb over the delicate, white petals of the flower plucked between two fingers. The pages in the last book you can refer to are sun-faded, brittle, and written in a foreign language; you can barely tell if the flower should be stark white or nearly pink, with this vivid, purple venation or not. Its no use, though; it‘s beautiful, but the distinct serrated margins of the foliage gives it away; you‘re looking for more of a lobed indentation. This isn‘t the flora, harvested for its antibacterial and mild numbing agents, that you‘re looking for. It‘s not hard to believe, despite your mild disappointment; they‘re incredibly rare.

You hear Ezra returning.

“The flowers are almost identical, but these aren‘t the right ones,” you lament.

Sighing deep, you snap your field guide shut. “I‘m sorry,“ you say, offering your business partner an apologetic smile as you rise to your feet. “I guess landing here was a waste. I totally thought they might be growing here; this moon has the soil type they grow in based on my data maps.“

The galaxy has become too competitive to survive on knowledge alone; you had lost your position in the botany lab at the university on Kamrea, and met Ezra only days before by chance when he came, in person, to have an entire case of flowers identified and lab tested for psychedelic chemical compounds. He wasn‘t the only floater looking for confirmations of that nature. You would have turned down his offer to accompany him on his harvests to help identify rare plants and resources a thousand times over again in another life. Now, a fifty-fifty split and a chance to actually discover new species was your best alternative. So far, he‘s been a respectful, albeit voluble and rambling companion.

Ezra‘s been distracted; you‘d been stuck on your pod for almost thirty hours before landing here, and he‘s been wandering, examining your new surroundings and stretching his legs. When he finally strides closer, his face falls in alarm.

“What?“ you prompt, freezing on the spot. “What is it?“

He points to the shrub, temporarily, for once, speechless. “That‘s what you came here to harvest?“

“What? No, I just said that it‘s not the right flower -“

He chortles, bringing his forearm to his mouth to obscure the bubbling laugh threatening to burst, but his eyes are downcast.

“Sweetheart -“

“I asked you to stop calling me that -“

“Yes, well, you are going to be accosting me to call you much worse in about ninety minutes,“ he points out, offering you a sympathetic grimace. “I would never put into question your indisputable expertise, but are you familiar with that plant?“ he again points to the shrub, and you crane your neck over your shoulder.

You think your heart stops completely for a moment. Only a brief moment, but long enough to make the next breath you draw shaky. Your mouth goes dry - or maybe that‘s a symptom; you‘re unfamiliar with the side effects.

“Oh, my god.“

One of your hands cups your mouth. Surely the microscopic grains discharged from the male organs on the Coition flower have made their way into your system by now. You examine the fingers that held one only moments ago.

“I thought Coition flowers were purple,“ you mumble.

“No, just the venation. ˜White hands, purple veins‘, birdie.“

“Shit,“ you whisper, panic blooming in your chest. “Shit, Ezra -“

“Now, you are not in mortal peril here,“ he reassures, spreading his hands out in front of him, imploring you to relax. “It‘s not toxic. You just may find yourself…“

“Ezra,“ your face crumples, “what should I do? Wait, you go. To the pod. I‘ll stay here, and -“

“And once that dust settles into your bloodstream, you‘re sure to seek me out; no use in separating ourselves, lest you have the means to barricade one of us. In which case, little bird, you will not die, but it is going to burn like the fiery bowels of hell.“

“Burn?“ you cry, “It hurts? Has this ever happened to you before?“ you ask him, childlike.

“I cannot say I have had the pleasure; pardon the crude pun, but I simply could not resist -“ you‘re fuming - how he could make a joke at a time like this is beyond you - and still he suppresses the urge to laugh, “but I have heard many tales; the pain is only a result of neglecting to address -“

“Do you think you got close enough?“

He hesitates. “You touched one, did you not?“

You nod.

“The dust is persistent, little bird.“ He shakes his head, turning away to gaze back at your pod in the distance.

You begin to weigh your options. Ezra is certainly attractive; you‘ve chided yourself on more than one occasion since becoming his colleague, catching yourself staring at him from your cot. But Ezra is…rough around the edges. Older - not by that much, but beyond your range of experience. And Ezra‘s dubious lifestyle likely would make for a questionable sex partner.

“We can separate and,“ you falter, “you know. Take care of ourselves. By ourselves.“ You glance at his left hand and heat pricks your cheeks.

Ezra doesn‘t make an attempt to conceal his amusement this time. Shaking his head again in silent acquiescence, he shrugs.

“Whatever you think is best, I will not try to persuade you otherwise. Only time will tell if I will be afflicted, but since you, sweetheart, are the guinea pig in this instance, you may execute the terms without argument from me.“

As your heart rate seems to accelerate, it‘s impossible to discern between anxiety and side effects at the moment.

“I need to distract myself for now,“ you tell him. “Let‘s just -“

“A suggestion, if I may?“

He turns for the large tree, a hardwood angiosperm currently in bloom, and reaches for your field kit lying against the base of the trunk.

“Since you‘ve already been exposed, why not go ahead and harvest the stamen. This stimulant will fetch a pretty penny for our older, less capable clientele.“

Ezra, always the opportunist. You groan, but he‘s right. You set to work quickly, and you assume Ezra stands back at a distance, watching with his hands on his hips, out of courtesy. Maybe he thinks that if he helps, you‘d take it as solicitation, intentionally exposing himself to the aphrodisiac as a way to take advantage of your eventual state. Although useless now, you put on your gloves and face mask out of habit as your tweezers delicately pluck off the center organs from several flowers, dropping them into individual glass vials.

“Double bag those, for your sake, if not the traders,“ Ezra suggests.

“I know!“ You snap.

Okay, so you‘re nervous, but there‘s no reason to feel this irritated. A wave of impatience is mounting inside of you. Why is he just standing there? Why isn‘t he doing something? Closer to you? Why is he all the way over there?

“I meant no offense, bird.“

Bird. Where did that moniker even come from? He sounds a little huskier than usual, maybe he‘s - no, stop. Focus. Your hands are beginning to tremble as you seal up the second bag now containing the vials. Stay focused. A prominent smell is permeating your environment; blaster grease and sweat and salt and…something. Something you‘ve noticed in the pod. You salivate, trying to ignore the building pressure between your legs.

It‘s Ezra. You turn towards him as you remain crouched down in front of your kit, packing everything away and disposing of your gloves and mask in a hazmat zip bag. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, watching you closely, and you catch another strong waft of that heady, enticing scent.

He‘s watching you like you‘re a feral, unpredictable creature he‘s stumbled upon. You swallow as you remember you‘re gradually becoming one.

“Are you feeling alright, little bird?“

“Why? Do I look - can you tell -“

“You‘re just fine,“ he soothes, “you are just very -“ he pauses, parting his lips with his tongue.

His usually-olive cheeks are a little flushed; maybe he‘s as warm as you are. The sun is now behind the little boreal forest on the edge of the marsh the pod is parked in, there‘s no reason you can deduce that would make things warmer - ugh.

“What?“

“Your lips are quite plump,“ he admits, letting a hand fall against his leg like he‘s frustrated.

Like watching you slowly become a swollen, wanton mess is an inconvenience. He parts his lips with his tongue again. He‘s watching your mouth so intensely, your stomach flips. Ezra is far more stoic than usual, you suddenly notice.

His observation makes sense; your lips do feel thicker. Your throat is also very tight; it feels like the onset of a panic attack. It‘s not a burn, like Ezra described. Maybe this is just anxiety. It certainly feels that way when you notice it‘s hard to breathe.

“I need to sit down,“ you announce. “Maybe drink some water.“

You rise, wiping the earth from your knees and collecting the case by the plastic handle. “I‘m going to go back to the pod and try to relax.“

Ezra only nods; his silence is contributing to your panic.

“You okay?“ you ask him.

“Marvelous,“ he replies, but his smile is tight.

You intentionally hold your breath as you walk past him towards the pod.

~*~*~*

You can‘t seem to stay away from Ezra. You‘re sure it‘s a result of the panic you feel; it‘s natural to want company when you‘re feeling anxious. That‘s what you tell yourself.

God, you‘re hot. It‘s been temperately warm since your arrival, but this is down right uncomfortable. You pinch the collar of your tee shirt, fanning it out and away from your chest to create circulation. Drinking water helped only momentarily; your throat still feels like it‘s gradually restricting oxygen. Anxiety, you tell yourself. Nothing burns. Well, your lips are prickling, but that‘s likely blood flow. It‘s sensible that the pollen would create a swelling effect, given its intended nature. How would participating in sex alleviate anything for your mouth? You immediately shake away the very inappropriate suggestions your mind begins to offer. You squeeze your thighs together to try and alleviate the swelling there. This is a biological reaction from the pollen. If you can keep that rational at the forefront of your mind, you‘ll get through it. You‘re tough.

Ezra is still uncharacteristically quiet. He‘s fidgeting, which is unusual for him, as well - he‘s certainly happy to lounge most of the time, but now you watch him from your peripheral. He‘s jiggling his legs as he sits in one of the pilot chairs, raking his fingers through his hair. The blonde patch sticks out distinctly. You watch as a hand - broad and calloused, a hand you‘ve watched with awe as it cut open rare spores containing precious gems, tool minuscule parts back together again with steady, even precision - rubs the back of his neck as he exposes the nape, leaning his head back. His throat - you can see the vein pumping blood, his Adam‘s apple move as he swallows hard, skin pricking, the deep curves of his jugular below his defined jaw line…

Stop. This is unprofessional. Surely you can endure a few hours of discomfort for the sake of your dignity, but your throat; you feel like you‘re slowly, tortuously choking.

“I think I‘m having a panic attack,“ you tell him. “My throat -“ you wave your hand over it for emphasis.

Ezra nods fervently in agreement, clearing his own.

“A sensation I can commiserate with,“ he says, his knees bouncing frantically. “But you are not experiencing that as a result of psychological distress,“ he reminds you.

Somehow, that‘s more comforting to hear than it was the first time. At least you‘re not dying. Your thoughts are beginning to race, keeping pace with your heartbeat, and that rising impatience is rearing its head again.

“Why are you so quiet, Ezra?“

“I am making an extraordinary attempt at demonstrating self-control!“ he asserts, shaking his head and rubbing his eyes with the heels of his palms. “I can assure you that you do not want to hear what I, at present, wish to articulate to you.“

“So, you were exposed to it, too. Shit,“ you mimick his gestures, shaking your head and biting your nails. “I‘m so sorry, I‘m not well-versed with the Coitial family, I could have sworn I read somewhere they were purple -“

“A mistake anyone would be capable of committing, little bird. No apology necessary.“

His voice does sound deeper than usual, the silky drawl more appealing than you remember it being. It‘s a shame he‘s not as talkative as he normally is.

“Perhaps your suggestion was a pragmatic one - if you would excuse me, I might go take a walk, clear my head before -“

“Wait!“

Your eyes widen, you hadn‘t meant to shriek like that, but the idea of Ezra creating distance between you, of leaving, is unsettling. Your panic is becoming unmanageable.

“Ezra, my entire mouth,“ you whimper. “I‘m kind of freaked out.“

His lips are parted and puffy and they suddenly look like a resource, like a solution.

“Maybe if we tried,“ you stammer, jolting forward a bit from your seat, “maybe I could just press my lips against yours for a second -“

Ezra cuts you off with a hearty guffaw. “There is a very specific word to describe the act you speak of. It‘s called ˜kissing‘.“

“Yes, I know that, But this is an experiment, it seems like it might help,“ you snap. “Just something to decrease the symptoms.“

He laughs again. “You‘re entitled to make it sound as clinical as you‘d like, but this is the pollen taking effect; surely you of all people can recognize that, and this is only the beginning.“

He looks as uncomfortable as you feel; sweat is beading below his hairline. The leg-bouncing looks like an uncontrollable tick.

“Right. Forget it. Let‘s just…we‘ve still got our bearings. We‘re okay.“

You reach for a book; a distraction. You‘re not actually dying. Your lips are numb, but your throat isn‘t really closing up. The only part you‘re having trouble digesting now is that it‘s spreading. Your chest is tight. What‘s even worse is your eyesight; the words on the pages appear blurred. You scan around the pod to test your vision - everything is fuzzy except for Ezra, who seems to have a beaming, white aura, highlighting even more definition around him. His skin, his hair, everything looks almost magnified and crisp.

Every fiber of your being is begging you to press your lips against his - to kiss him, whatever. You‘re kind of in disbelief that you haven‘t taken advantage of your living situation to kiss him sooner. Who cares if he‘s a floater? Who are you to judge? How have you failed to notice just how lucious his mouth is, his lips are naturally full and now they‘re positively swollen -

Enough, you say in your head. Get a grip - this doesn‘t hurt. Except, maybe it does a bit. There‘s a gripping ache taking over you, like you‘re itching everywhere - everything is tight and there‘s an undeniable burn that feels more like ice than fire. The worst is between your legs. Time also seems to be nonexistent, impossible to keep track of. It‘s hard to tell if it‘s been minutes or hours. Every time you try to give the pod even a cursory glance over, a wave of nausea sets in; only Ezra is in focus, who is keeled over in his chair, groaning quietly, arms wrapped around himself. A pang of guilt thrashes inside your chest - this is your fault. He trusted you to be able to identify the right species. Shouldn‘t you do something to help him? You rub your palms over your thighs, and you‘re relieved to find it helps. You squeeze a little bit, and you wince in shame when a little moan escapes from your aching throat.

“God damn it,“ Ezra roars. “Try to refrain from making another sound like that, bird. I can hardly stand to breathe this close to you.“

“I‘m sorry,“ you whimper.

The burn Ezra warned you about is consuming you; it‘s excruciating. You want to crawl out of your skin. Ezra‘s mouth is hypnotic, and you whimper out another moan.

“Can we just try kissing? My whole body now, Ezra; it feels weird, and you smell really good, and -“ he breaks off your increasingly incoherent ranting.

“Kevva, please,“ he groans, and you leap from your cot, straddling him, your lips crashing against his.

It‘s like taking an incredibly deep breath after almost drowning, like plunging into cool waters after being on fire. His strong hands are pulling you against him, one cradling the back of your head and the other wrapped tightly around your waist, moaning in relief.

The way he tastes is like liquid gold, the most fulfilling thing you‘ve ever felt on your tongue, his mouth on you is the sweetest solace you‘ve ever known.

Your fingers thread through his hair, pulling his face closer.

“You taste so good,“ you cry, “this feels so good, please, don‘t stop.“

Ezra responds by literally tearing your shirt in two; he pulls the collar from your throat and rips it open, immediately rushing for your breasts with his mouth, tearing your bra away as the clasps split apart. He hardly seems to pull himself away when he tugs his own shirt off his head, resuming the way he seems to be drinking from your skin. His tongue, his mouth everywhere, is like a balm. It‘s the most intense pleasure you‘ve ever felt, you would truly die if he ever stopped.

“You,“ he pants, lapping his tongue over a nipple, “you are holier than the very blood in my veins, god damn it.“

Everything is a clashing, messy heap of bodies so eager to touch, kiss, grope, that the blur of the room around you only enhances the way his golden skin gleams against the setting sun pouring in from the window of the cockpit.

“I thought I would go blind staring at you, this is deliverance.“

You think you could come from his mouth on your breasts, your collarbones, alone. The simple act of tasting his neck enough. Every single sense is heightened, every graze you feel of his body on yours is so divine, so perfect, you‘re not sure you want to live without it. This can never stop, he can never leave you.

Everything feels better except your core, but now the burn feels good.

“I want you inside of me, now.“

It‘s another flurry of movements when he guides you from his lap, helps you step out of your pants, and takes of his own, his mouth never leaving yours. He backs you down onto his cot and he crashes over you.

You‘re obscenely wet, the lips of your cunt so swollen they ache. Ezra‘s cursing loudly as he briefly grazes over your heat before plunging in, sinking to the hilt.

“Heaven,“ he proclaims, planting his palms by the side of your head. “Your pussy is fucking celestial,“ he coos, pumping into you slowly, like he‘s savoring every inch.

It‘s hard to remember that this isn‘t simply Ezra that‘s responsible for the most intense, sublime pleasure you‘ve ever felt. Every nerve in your body is humming for him, this otherworldly chorus. And the way he‘s looking at you like you‘re the fucking sun - he‘s been here all this time, and you‘ve denied yourselves? It‘s sinful. Your walls, so primed and slick for him, only him, Ezra is a demigod and he‘s filling you, clench around him as you tighten each time he sinks completely into you.

“You belong to me,“ he rasps, steadily increasing the pace of his cock easing in and out of you. “You may not ever leave me, you are mine -“

“Don‘t stop, please.“ You pull him into a kiss, your mouth starting to burn without him. When his tongue finds yours, it‘s like finally being able to breathe again. He‘s your life source. You are his.

~*~*~*~*

Time truly doesn‘t exist, maybe you‘re dead. Maybe Ezra‘s mouth on your swollen clit, feeling his humming against your most sensistive place is what the extramundane is for you. When you open your eyes, all bleary and weak but for his body, you see him reach between his legs as he laps at you, trying to relieve himself of the ache. So you have him lie on his back; you crawl on top of him and take him in your mouth so that you can have each other this way at once. It‘s not long - or maybe it‘s years, who knows - before your mouth fills with his seed, the salty heat in your throat like sustenance.

~*~*~*~

There‘s times when you sleep, or you think you might, and you‘re wrapped against him. You wake and he fills you again, spills into you again, whispers endearing, loving, filthy poems and curses into your ears. As long as you‘re touching, as long as his fingers or tongue or cock is inside of you, the burning is kept at bay and nothing but bliss remains.

~*~*~*~*~

When you truly wake, you startle a bit.

Ezra‘s breathing is deep and secure; he‘s still very much asleep. You‘re no longer on fire, you realize. You can inhale without restriction, you swallow without pain.

The only thing remaining is your very ardent desire for the sleeping man dragging you back against his chest.

“Let‘s sleep in, little bird. Come back.“ He doesn‘t open his eyes, but his saccharine smile doesn‘t go unnoticed.


End file.
